


Grab

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones and Jim get revved up, forcing Spock to stay in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grab

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mrennenimus VII is a planet of odd customs that, in the interest of Federation trade agreements, the landing party tries to oblige. When the senior staff is invited to a feast, they go to the feast. When they’re offered to indulge in side-effect-laden treats, they indulge. When they’re told to relax and enjoy the show, they do just that—excluding Spock, of course, who neither relaxes nor “enjoys” the provocative display—and when they’re invited to stay the night in the king’s palace, which seems to be composed solely of beds sectioned off by translucent curtains, they politely agree.

The “room” Spock, Jim, and Dr. McCoy are given contains only one bed, slightly larger than those they walked past to get here but nonetheless thoroughly inappropriate for three full-grown men on duty. Dr. McCoy predictably grumbles over it, but Jim predictably placates him—this is, after all, not nearly the worst of accommodations they’ve had to endure on away missions. Spock finds the entire mess unsettling but determines it prudent to stay, and so he walks around the side of the large, waist-high mattress, slipping out of his shoes at the side. They day has been, indeed, tiring, and Spock gets the distinct impression from the natives that if he’s caught wandering, he’ll be considered quite rude. He would sit at the end of the bed and meditate, but then when they’re inevitably asked tomorrow about how they slept—as Mrennenimians seem prone to ask after _everything_ , Spock will be unable to deliver an honest, satisfactory answer. The only logical course of action is to sleep as close to the edge of the overly-bright green bed as possible and hope neither Jim nor Dr. McCoy fidget or snore.

Spock’s barely lifted the blankets before Jim approaches him, Dr. McCoy already on the other side but only sitting down. “Spock,” Jim starts, hesitating enough to let Spock know something’s wrong. Rather than finish, he looks over Spock’s shoulder, and Spock turns to find Dr. McCoy sitting cross-legged before the blankets and waiting.

Back to Jim, Spock asks, “Yes, Captain?”

“We need a favour,” Jim says, cheeks turning redder—they’ve been pink all evening since the display at dinner, like Dr. McCoy’s. It’s going to be one of _those_ favours, Spock quickly surmises—off the record and private. When Spock merely quirks an eyebrow, Jim goes on, “Could you, uh... I think you should take the middle.”

Curious, Spock asks, “Why?”

Jim stares at him for a moment. It gives Spock the first chance to examine him properly since they sat down to eat. His pupils appear more dilated than usual, eating up his blue irises, his lashes slightly lowered and lips a little wet, a little swollen, as though they’ve been licked and nibbled. He indulged, perhaps too much, in the many fruits provided at dinner, most of which where explained to contain subtle aphrodisiacs. Wanting to be polite, Spock ate a single fruit. Jim and Dr. McCoy weren’t so sparing. 

Finally, Jim throws up his hands and sighs, “Alright, but you’ll be sorry you asked, and I don’t want to hear any judgment about it. Bones and I don’t have your Vulcan resolve. We ate a lot of food, we watched a lot of exotic dances, and now we’re a lot more aroused than a captain and doctor ever should be on an away mission.”

Dr. McCoy makes a noncommittal grunt from the other side of the bed that sounds disparaging, though Spock isn’t sure who it’s aimed at.

Spock simply states, “I had predicted that reaction. You were, if you remember, adequately warned of the festivities’ effects.” Jim wrinkles his nose, and Spock continues, “I accept this fact, but I do not understand why that would require me to sleep between you.”

“So we’ll keep our hands off each other, you dolt,” Dr. McCoy throws in. Spock instantly looks back to him. Dr. McCoy’s just as red as Jim is, but his expression is fiercer, something of a scowl, or a glare, or maybe some other human emotion Spock doesn’t have a grasp on.

Jim sighs in what sounds like exasperation, “It was hard enough getting through dinner without fooling around under the table, but a bed? We’d never make it! It’s just... look, can you just take the middle? Something tells me you’re not having the same self-control problem we are. It’d just be safer all around.”

Under the circumstances, Spock would prefer to beam them all back up the Enterprise and face the political consequences. He understands the importance of diplomacy, but if two senior officers are so affected that they cannot adequately perform—or resist performing, in this case—the mission should be cancelled. If he thought Jim would listen, he’d suggest it.

But Jim wouldn’t, and Jim’s not showing enough irrationality to be relieved of command, so Spock shuffles over to the middle of the bed, lifts the covers, and slips beneath them. They’re thick and inordinately fluffy, made of the exact same material as the pillows. Jim makes a relieved noise and joins him, Dr. McCoy sliding beneath the covers on his other side, then rolling quickly over. Jim does the same. Though they’re forced to lie barely a dozen centimeters apart, both of his colleagues face the other way and curl into themselves, conceivably keeping as close to their respective edges as possible.

And Spock lies where is, on his back, staring up at the ceiling, painted like the night sky with little glowing lights of stars. The effect is a dim glow that makes it easy enough to see one another, but passes as enough darkness to comfortably sleep in. The curtains reach to the ceiling, but Spock knows from walking here that all the rooms are painted the same. From the lack of any noise from adjacent rooms, Spock must conclude that the curtains are, somehow, soundproof. It’s a gratifying discovery, given the nature of Jim’s and Dr. McCoy’s confession and... condition.

Closing his eyes, Spock attempts sleep for the first few minutes. Unfortunately, Jim quickly starts squirming too much for it, Dr. McCoy following only a short while later. Spock lifts his lids enough to watch Jim’s back, fidgeting wildly beneath his gold uniform. His hands keep appearing over his shoulders, tugging at the fabric, then disappearing beneath the blankets, legs stretching and feet occasionally bumping Spock’s leg. His breathing sounds erratic. A quick glance to Dr. McCoy betrays the same symptoms. Both seem not only unable to find a comfortable position, but prone to extreme squirming. 

Jim’s the first to roll over, facing Spock and sidling up too close—his chest brushes Spock’s arm. One of his legs tosses over the closest of Spock’s, his arm snaking beneath the covers to loop over Spock’s chest. Spock opens his eyes fully, noting that Jim’s are only half-lidded. Jim licks his pink lips and murmurs, “Sorry.”

Spock opens his mouth to reply... something. He’s not sure what. He doesn’t get the chance: Dr. McCoy abruptly flips over and jerks at the blankets until they’re not caught between, quickly mirroring Jim in his drapery over Spock’s body. Jim makes a weak whining noise, then leans up and swipes his tongue over the shell of Spock’s ear, catching the pointed tip, and it’s Spock’s turn to inhale sharply. 

No sooner has Spock given Jim his full attention than Dr. McCoy’s flattened along his side, the tent in his pants digging obviously into Spock’s wrist. Dr. McCoy’s fingers splay over his chest, drag along his uniform, and Jim clings to the blue tunic, his mouth opening to spread against Spock’s neck. Dr. McCoy’s hips roll forward, coiling back to go again, humping him at a steady, highly inappropriate rhythm, Jim quick to follow. Spock lies still, tense, debating the pros and cons of shoving both of them out of bed. Neither of them are hurting him—quite the opposite—but it’s clear that neither of them has any self-control, and this is entirely the wrong place to redefine their albeit questionable physical relationship parameters. He finally, tightly asks, “What are you doing?”

“ _Damn_ ,” Jim moans, a human obscenity laced with guilt. “Spock... Spock, I’m sorry—but you’re just as hot as Bones is, I don’t know why I thought this would work, _fuck_ , you’re so _hot_...”

Spock is, indeed, above his average body temperature at the moment. He wasn’t affected by either the aphrodisiac-laden dinner or the raunchy show, but _this_ is another matter entirely. His Vulcan upbringing and tight mental discipline have never stopped him from observing just how aesthetically pleasing his two closest crew members are, and each mission they spend together has only increased their bond. Though he doesn’t expect to hit _pon farr_ for some time, he’s quite capable of private physical relief in the meantime, and if he _were_ to seek such activities, of course these would be the two he’d go to. He’d had some idea that Jim would be amenable, but the sizeable bulge in Dr. McCoy’s pants is something of a surprise. Dr. McCoy could easily reach over him to touch Jim, but both men seem thoroughly fixed on _Spock_. While Jim mouths at the crook of Spock’s neck and shoulder, sending a shock of subtle touch-telepathy revealing only _lust_ , Dr. McCoy runs his hand down the length of Spock’s body, stopping just before Spock’s pants.

Then he pauses to hiss, “Spock, get out of the bed.”

Rolling his head aside to face Dr. McCoy (and thus giving Jim more room to play), Spock replies, “This is the only bed we were provided, and in the Mrennenimian culture, it would be considered extremely rude to—”

“Damnit,” Dr. McCoy growls, eyes _burning_ in the low faux-starlight, “if you don’t clear the way to Jim right now, _your_ green ass is the one I’m going to fuck.”

Spock’s eyebrows reach his hairline. Under normal circumstances, he would calmly retort that his rear is no such colour, but at the moment, he has bigger things on his mind. Jim releases a long, lewd moan, and bucks his hips into Spock’s side. After a moment of staring Dr. McCoy down, Spock concludes, “Duly noted,” and turns his face back up to the ceiling, staying exactly where he is. As much as the prospect is, shamefully, something Spock would like to consider, he has no intention of fornicating in their host’s bed, and he’s quite confident Dr. McCoy doesn’t have the physical strength to turn him over if he doesn’t oblige. He then lifts his arms and gently pushes both men away from him, to Dr. McCoy’s angry grumble and Jim’s disappointed whine. For their own safety, it’s best if they don’t continue to stimulate him.

When Jim tries to squirm back to him anyway, Spock fixes Jim with a stern gaze and says, “Captain, while I am sure you are facing some measure of physical distress, you surely retain some measure of your mental facilities. You should not allow yourself to utterly disregard your true feelings simply because of temporary physical urges.”

Having spent some time with humans, Spock doesn’t expect the advice to work. Jim, indeed, scrunches up his brow in confusion, but only to ask, “What true feelings? I’ve always wanted you two—you know that.” Spock, frowning, doesn’t answer, and Jim leans forward, saying stronger, “I don’t just mean physically, Spock—come on, you _do_ know that, don’t you?”

Slowly, unsure and a little shocked, Spock answers, “While I am aware of your open preference towards sexual gratification, we have always maintained a friendship, and you wished me to lie between you...”

“Because I thought you wouldn’t reciprocate, so you’d be safer than Bones—look, we’ll talk about this, we have to—we already made out in the hall while you were asking the king about your tricorder readings, we just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but of course we want _you_.” He punctuates this statement by shuffling forward again, locking his leg over Spock’s again and leaning forward to mouth at Spock’s cheek; Spock’s already turning to the other side, glancing at Dr. McCoy with just as much shock as with Jim. 

“I figured the same thing,” Dr. McCoy admits, his eyes not meeting Spock’s but instead tracing over the shape of Spock’s body beneath the covers.

Sexuality, something both men seemed to have a surplus of even before this mission, is one thing. Romantic interest is quite another. Spock spends a few thoroughly confused seconds staring up at the ceiling, only for Dr. McCoy and Jim to converge on him again, running their too-warm hands over his body and rutting their crotches into his sides, their wet mouths reaching for his face. This time, he doesn’t quite have the force of will to push them away.

He asks instead, quiet and dazed, “Am I to understand that you both have... feelings... for me?”

“Of course,” Jim answers, husky, nuzzling into Spock’s face and wrapping two arms around his to flatten their bodies as close as possible. “Couldn’t you tell? All that time we spend together...”

“We work together.”

“We work with Sulu,” Dr. McCoy snorts, “but we don’t spend all our off hours following him around.” He ends his statement with a nip to Spock’s ear that makes Spock’s breath hitch—Dr. McCoy’s teeth are blunt, careful, but he runs them harshly down the side of Spock’s face: a little promise of _danger_ , of roughness, that shouldn’t be enticing to Spock but _is_. Jim lets out an absolutely filthy noise and writhes wantonly against him. They’re both all over him with too-eager mouths, hands, tongues...

Spock’s suppressed his own interest. He knows that. But the more he’s touched and licked and kissed, the more that interest stirs beneath the logic—something raw, feral, difficult to ignore—he _wants_ to reciprocate—he’s stoic now, but his ancestors were _animals_ , and he has the strength, the skill, to take both of them at once, mark them properly and ensure that this bristling connection lasts far, far longer that this one alien bed.

With considerable effort, he announces, “Stop.” His voice is loud, final. In tandem, Dr. McCoy and Jim halt, pulling back to look at him in surprise.

In his best diplomatic tone, Spock says, “I would be most interested in discussing this. ...Once we are safely back aboard the Enterprise and neither of you is intoxicated with alien stimulants.”

“What? You—” Dr. McCoy snarls, Jim protesting at the exact same time, “But, Spock—”

Over both of them, Spock says, “I have said no, gentlemen, and I expect you both to respect my wishes.” While they both recoil to sulk, Spock adds, softer, “Now, I believe it would be in everyone’s best interest for us to rest. You will both return to your respective ‘sides’ of the bed and remain still and quiet, or I will be forced to employ a nerve-pinch.”

Dr. McCoy absolutely _glares_. But he rolls over, tugging the blankets with him. He remains that way for some time, seemingly out of sheer spite. Jim slowly does the same, looking more disappointed, but he also behaves himself. 

And Spock is left safely alone but unfortunately hard. He’s vaguely proud of himself for ending the proceedings before either of them discovered that fact. 

He lies awake for the rest of the night, mentally preparing for what is sure to be a most interesting discussion.


End file.
